


loose inhibitions

by epoenine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drunken Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always prided himself in his self control while drunk, but it does fuck all when he’s with Combeferre. Loose inhibitions and the best kind of bad ideas. His mind is hazy, fog-clouded as he leans towards Combeferre, tells him that he’s so, so sad and presses his lips to the stubbled hinge of Combeferre’s jaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loose inhibitions

Courfeyrac is on friendly terms with the simple torture of falling in love with his best friend. He knows what it’s like, knows it as well as he knows what Combeferre is like at two in the morning the night before a test, how he can barely keep his eyes open, slumping against Courfeyrac on the way to make his fifth cup of coffee.

It’s not easy, but at the same time, it’s as natural as breathing. The way Courfeyrac’s heart jumps when he gets a smile he’s sure is only meant for him. The way he looks at Combeferre like he’s the only one in the room. The way Courfeyrac has taught himself to not care so much, to fuck random strangers so he might stop thinking about the arch of Combeferre’s spine as he bends himself over a textbook.

There’s Combeferre laughing, his head thrown back as he reveals the expanse of his neck. There’s Courfeyrac’s eyes trained on the way Combeferre’s pulse jumps against his unshaven scruff. There’s the hot, bitter taste of whiskey as it crawls down Courfeyrac’s throat with each shot. There’s the way drink eases the pain, makes his mind a little fuzzy, helps him forget the way Combeferre looked this morning, all bed-head and and violets under his eyes, half-asleep grunts as he downed his coffee.

He’s always prided himself in his self control while drunk, but it does fuck all when he’s with Combeferre. Loose inhibitions and the best kind of bad ideas. His mind is hazy, fog-clouded as he leans towards Combeferre, tells him that he’s so, so sad and presses his lips to the stubbled hinge of Combeferre’s jaw.

Courfeyrac has no idea what’s going on in that beautiful mind of Combeferre’s, no idea what he’s thinking as he presses soft kisses to the skin of his throat. He’s leaning across the couch and there are strong, careful hands on his sides, keeping him steady as he feels the gentle flutter of Combeferre’s pulse against his lips.

The press of Combeferre’s warm fingertips under Courfeyrac’s jaw tilts his head upwards and there’s a beat of slow breathing before Combeferre closes the gap between them, his mouth hot on Courfeyrac’s.

“What are we doing?” Combeferre says in an undertone after the first barely-there press of lips. He pulls back, his thumb brushing over Courfeyrac’s cheekbone. Courfeyrac’s eyes glint with false playfulness.

Between gasps of breathy laughter, Courfeyrac says, “It’s just a bit of fun,” even though it’s not, even though he’s going to regret this in the morning, but right now, in his drunken stupor, he doesn’t care, because this might be the only time he gets this.

This is what he does. He takes what he’s given and he doesn’t ask for anything more, makes do with what he’s got. Lingering touches as Combeferre passes him a cup of coffee in the morning, the way Combeferre sometimes holds his gaze longer than he should, that smile Combeferre saves for only him.

They’re kissing again, mouths pressed together sharing the same air. Courfeyrac has got his fingers threaded through the soft hair against the nape of Combeferre’s neck, tugging just enough to elicit a reaction from him, a shiver that makes heat pool in Courfeyrac’s stomach.

He nips at Combeferre’s lips, untangling his fingers to run them down Combeferre’s shoulders, touch where he’s never been allowed to touch while sober. His hipbones, the small of his back, his inner thighs. Combeferre’s breath hitching and his soft noises is the only motivation Courfeyrac needs.

Pulling away to latch onto Combeferre’s neck, Courfeyrac sucks a bruise to the skin, too high to be able to cover it up tomorrow. He’ll have to explain he drunkenly made out with his best friend, and he’ll miss the way their eyes turn soft and glance at said best friend with sympathy. The thought fills his stomach heavy with dread so Courfeyrac pushes that away, thinks about the mark he’s leaving, how he’s finally got this, even for one hurried makeout session on the couch just before dawn.

Kissing Combeferre is like a breath of fresh air, so Courfeyrac goes back to that, trying to etch every detail into his memory, from the way Combeferre tastes, feels, sounds. He never wants to forget this.

It ends too quickly. Combeferre pulls back to rest his forehead against Courfeyrac’s, catching his breath. After a long, drawn-out moment of silence, he says, “Courfeyrac,” and it sounds regretful. Courfeyrac laughs bitterly.

“I know, I know.” He puts distance between them after one last kiss pressed to the corner of Combeferre’s mouth. “I’ll drink a glass of water and go to bed.”

When the sun has risen, everything goes to shit. Combeferre is awake and he won’t look Courfeyrac in the eyes. The coffee pot clinks against Courfeyrac’s mug so many times that he knows Combeferre can tell his hands are shaking.

Going through the cupboards, Combeferre asks, “Hungover?” Courfeyrac nods and stays silent, mostly because he doesn’t trust his voice, and Combeferre slides the bottle of aspirin across the counter, eyes still anywhere but on Courfeyrac.

He knows that he’s fucked everything up, their friendship and the comfortable silence that they’ve always had, but if he tries really hard he can remember what Combeferre tastes like, he can still feel his gentle press his lips on Courfeyrac’s own.

To get rid of his headache, Courfeyrac dry swallows the pills and leans against the counter. He’s looking at Combeferre, willing him to meet his eyes.

They’re standing in the cramped kitchen, close enough that if Courfeyrac shifts inches his thigh will be pressed to Combeferre’s, and over by the oven Courfeyrac can see that the wallpaper is peeling.

“You can’t tell me that didn’t mean anything,” Combeferre says softly, voice barely louder than a whisper.  He’s still not looking at Courfeyrac.

He responds with, “Did you want it to?” and it’s not in the usual teasing tone he uses to cover up how much he cares. It’s uncertain and a little shaky, but the quick nod he sees before Combeferre’s lips are on his sends the dread away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> im at prouvairie on tumblr! come say hi


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